


Flesh

by brorotica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Tigers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brorotica/pseuds/brorotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing flays him open from throat to groin, a thick red line of torn flesh opening up down his midsection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Evisceration and blood, brief violence at the beginning, some strong language. Tigerstiel!

The thing flays him open from throat to groin, a thick red line of torn flesh opening up down his midsection. Dean stares down the curve of his own body, sees the raw crimson hole that's suddenly been torn across his person, and as black blood, the sort that only spills when something vital is wounded, wells up out of his mouth, he finds himself staring up at a pair of eyes wholly different from his own. Dark yellow, with slits for pupils and an almond shape, the eyes practically glow. A rough tongue drags along the cut, pulls down the injury from just below Dean's jaw to right above his hips. It feels like sandpaper being applied to fatal damage, like an added abrasion on top of the pain he's already feeling, and as he feebly attempts to push his insides back in, a weight settles across his legs.

The thing laps at his stomach, at the blood that wells up out of him like oil gushing from the ground, and Dean screams.

When he wakes up, he's still screaming, and Sam is sitting bolt upright in the other bed, a knife in hand and his long hair disheveled. "What?" he whispers in the dark, and Dean can see the glint of his eyes. They aren't yellow. It's a relief. "What, Dean?"

"Nightmare," Dean says, and he drags his hand along his face, his breaths coming in short, hard gasps. His stomach hurts, and his fingers go to it reflexively. His shirt is soaked with sweat, but not blood. His skin is intact. "Just... shit, just a nightmare."

Nightmares aren't uncommon, and Sam doesn't question it, simply slipping his knife back beneath his pillow and watching his brother closely. "Do you need anything?" he asks, and Dean shakes his head. "You sure?"

"I'm just... I'm gonna go for a walk. Clear my head."

Sam nods, and Dean slips out of bed, tugging on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a jacket, making sure he has a gun, a knife, any sort of weapon, before sliding on his shoes and leaving the motel room. They're in Nagadoches, and the night is hot and heavy, so humid it feels like the air is pressing in on his face, smothering him slowly. Dean leans against the wooden rail of the motel for a moment, however, looking out at the abandoned parking lot with only two cars aside from his Impala. The motel is isolated, the closest building a gas station a good ways away, although Dean can see its faint glow even now.

Maybe a beer would help, make the buzzing in his head ebb, the sick feeling in his stomach disappear. Dean walks down a set of creaking stairs, passes an ice machine lit by a harsh fluorescent bulb, and steps out into the parking lot. There was something almost soothing about the emptiness, about the cicadas buzzing in the trees and the faint, far off sounds of the forest, and Dean sighs despite himself and starts across the lot, stopping by the Impala and checking that she's okay.

Once he ascertains that she is, he continues on his way, fingers stroking the blade of the knife slipped in his belt loop. It's comforting, along with the night noises, and the beat of his heart slows, the feeling in his gut begins to go away. The gas station is a half mile away, all bright lights and inviting signs, and it's separated from the motel by a good thick bit of forest and an abandoned piece of road. They aren't in Nagadoches for a case, simply passing through, and while there's enough local mythology to keep Dean interested, he doesn't believe a fucking word of it.

The woods are nothing to be frightened about.

He steps onto the road and starts his way towards the station, his throat a thick tight knot of anticipation, the hairs on his arms standing on edge. The forest is supposedly inhabited by Bigfoot, which is a load of bullshit if nothing else, but he feels like there are things watching him. Feels like there are eyes in the trees, more than deer or armadillos or coyotes, far more intelligent than any of the creatures combined.

Dean glances at the trees out of a sense of curiosity and finds a pair of bright yellow eyes staring back. They're low to the ground and far apart, but they're almond-shaped and slit-pupiled and Dean feels a crushing sense of impending death. He's felt it before. Maybe he should have told Sam goodbye. If he isn't back in an hour, will his brother look for him? Dean didn't say where he was going. He swallows so hard it hurts and sits down on the asphalt, staring at the eyes that are looking back at him. They look like fireflies. "What?" Dean asks, and his voice isn't his own. It's full of fear and confusion and desperation, and it scares him. Because the eyes are familiar, and Dean thinks he knows what they belong to.

The cat that slinks out of the trees is huge and sleek-furred, striped and dark in the night, and Dean presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. There's a fucking tiger standing before him. In the middle of Texas. If Dean hadn't seen stranger things, he would have been horrified. Right now, he just feels tired. So tired it's hard to even feel the fear bubbling up inside. "Why?" he asks this time, and the tiger rests a heavy, hot paw on his knee.

_ We rescued you _ , a voice inside Dean says, and he drops his hands. His eyes flicker up.

"But _why_?" Exhaustion comes out as much as the words. He's sore to the bone.

_ We need you. _

Dean feels sick. The tiger looks at him expectantly. The claws come out, and Dean knows the cat could open him up from throat to dick if the situation called for it. Dean wonders why it hasn’t happened yet. “What are you?”

_ An angel of the lord _ , and now the voice inside his head clicks into place.

“Why did it have to be a tiger?” he asks out loud, but it’s to no one in particular. Tentatively, he touches the massive head in front of him, fingers slipping through the thick fur. “I remember you.”

He leaves out the fact that he’s sure the cat in front of him is certain to be his death.


End file.
